"Plane's not till four, am I right? Cody, you there?"
"Yes. I'm here."
"If you're not too tuckered out, maybe you wouldn't mind dropping by my office. We'll give you lunch."
"Lunch?"
"Yep. You know, food. Don't they do lunch on the West Coast?"
"Yes. I mean, why?"
He chuckled. "Because we've got a few details to hammer out on this contract. So should we say, oh, eleven-thirty?"
"That's, yes, fine. Good," she said at random, and put the phone down.
She stared at her bag. Clothes. She'd need to change her clothes. Was he really giving her the contract?
The phone rang again. "Hello?" she said doubtfully, expecting anyone from god to the devil to reply.
"Hey, Cody. It's me."
"Richard?"
"Yeah. Listen, how did it go?"
"I don't… Things are… " She took a deep breath. "I got the contract."
"Hey, that's great. But how did last night go?"
"Christ Richard, I can't gossip now. I don't have the time. I'm on my way to Boone's, iron out a few details." She had to pull it together. "I'll call you in a week or two, okay?"
"No, wait, Cody. Just don't do anything you-"
"Later, okay." She dropped the phone in its cradle. How did he know to call the Westin? What did he care about her night? She rubbed her forehead again. Food might help with the contract. The headache, she meant. And she grinned: the contract. She'd goddamned well won the contract. She was gonna get a huge bonus. She was gonna be a Vice President. She was gonna be late.
In the bathroom, she picked up the toothbrush, rinsed off the smeared paste, and resolutely refused to think about last night.
Cookie dialed the hotel.
"This is Cody. Leave a message, or reach me on my cell phone," followed by a string of numbers beginning with 216. San Francisco. That's right. She'd told Cookie that last night: San Francisco with its fog and hills and great espresso on Sunday mornings.
That might be okay. Anything would beat this Atlanta heat.
Boone didn't want to talk details so much as to laugh and drink coffee and teach Cody how to eat a po' boy sandwich. After all, if they were gonna be working together, they should get to know each other, was he right? And there was no mention of strip clubs or lapdances until the end when he signed the letter of intent, handed it to her, and said, "I like the way you handle yourself. Now take that Austin fella, Dave. No breeding. Can't hold his liquor, can't keep his temper, and calls a woman names in public. But you: no boasting, no big words, you just sit quiet then seize the opportunity." He gave her a sly smile. "You do that in business and we'll make ourselves some money."
And somehow, with his clap on the back, the letter in her laptop case and the sun on her face while she waited for the car for her trip to the airport, she started to forget her confusion. She'd had great sex, she'd built the foundations of a profitable working relationship, she was thirty-one and about to be a Vice President, and she didn't even have a hangover.
The car came and she climbed into the cool, green-tinted interior.
She let the outside world glide by for ten minutes before she got out the letter of intent. She read it twice. Beautifully phrased. Strong signature. Wonderful row of zeroes before the decimal point. If everything stayed on track, this one contract would keep their heads above water until they could develop a few more income streams. And she had done it. No one else. Damn she was good! Someone should buy her a great dinner to celebrate.
She got out her phone, turned it on. The signal meter wavered as the car crossed from cell to cell. Who should she call? No one in their right mind would want to have dinner with Vince. Richard would only want all the details, and she didn't want to talk about those details yet; he was in the Carolinas, anyway. Asshole.
The signal suddenly cleared, and her phone bleeped: one message.
"Hey. This is Cookie. I know you don't go until the afternoon. If you… I know this is weird but last night was… Shit. Look, maybe you won't believe me but I can't stop thinking about you. I want to see you, okay? I'll be in the park, the one I told you about. Piedmont. On one of the benches by the lake. I'm going there now, and I'll wait. I hope you come. I'll bring doughnuts. Do you like doughnuts? I'll be waiting. Please."
Oooh, you're different, ooh, you're so special, ooh, give it to me baby, just pay another thousand dollars and I'll love you forever. Sure. But Cookie's voice sounded so soft, so uncertain, as though she really meant it. But of course it would. That was her living: playing pretend. Using people.
Cody's face prickled. Be honest, she told herself: Who really used who, here? Who got the big contract, who got to have exactly what she wanted: great sex with no complications, and on the expense account no less?
It was too confusing. She was too tired. She was leaving. It was all too late anyhow, she thought, as the car moved smoothly onto the interstate.
A woman sitting on her own on a bench, maybe getting hot, maybe getting thirsty, wanting to use the bathroom. Afraid to get up and go pee because she might miss the one she was waiting for. Maybe the hot sweet scent of the doughnuts reminded her she was hungry, but she wouldn't eat them because she wanted to present them in their round-dozen perfection to her sweetie, see her smile of delight. She would pick at the paint peeling on the wooden bench and look up every time someone like Cody walked past; every time, she'd be disappointed. This one magical thing had happened in her life, something very like a miracle, but as the hot fat sun sinks lower she understands that this miracle, this dream is going to die because the person she's resting all her hopes on is worried she might look like a fool.
Cody blinked, looked at her watch. She leaned forward, cleared her throat.
The driver looked at her in his mirror. "Ma'am?"
"Where is Piedmont Park?"
"Northeast of downtown."
"Do we pass it on the way to the airport?"
"No, ma'am."
She was crazy. But all that waited for her at home was a tankful of fish. "Take me there."
Without the hat and boots, wearing jeans and sandals and the kind of tank top Cody herself might have picked, Cookie looked young. So did her body language. Her hair was in a braid. She was flipping it from shoulder to shoulder, twisting on the bench to look to one side, behind her, the other side. When she saw Cody, her face opened in a big smile that was naked and utterly vulnerable.
"How old are you?" Cody blurted.
The face closed. "Twenty-six. How old are you?"
"Thirty-one." Cody didn't sit down.
They stared at each other. "Dirt on my face?"
"No. Sorry. It looks… you look different."
"You expect me to dress like that on my day off?"
"No! No." But part of her had. "So. You get a lot of days off?"
A short laugh. "Can't afford it. No expense accounts for me. No insurance, no 401(k), no paid vacation."
Cody flushed. "Earning two thousand bucks a night isn't exactly a hard luck story."
"Was I worth it?"
Her smell filled Cody's mouth. Yes! she wanted to shout. Yes, a hundred times over. But that made no sense, so she just stood there.
"You paid twenty-two hundred. The house takes sixty percent off the top. Out of my eight-eighty, Danny takes another twenty percent and, no, he's a bouncer, not a pimp, and I've never done that before last night. And no, I don't expect you to believe me. Then there's costumes, hair, waxing, makeup… " She leaned back, draped both arms along the back of the bench. "You tell me. Would fucking a complete stranger for three hours be worth five hundred dollars?"
Her mouth stretched in a hard smile but her eyes glistened. She put one ankle up on the other knee.
"Does your ankle still hurt?" It just popped out.
Cookie turned away, blinked a couple of time. Cody found herself kneeling before the bench.
"Cookie? Cookie, don't cry."
"Susanna," she said, still turned away.